Meanwhile, back at the garrison
by kissmyathos
Summary: While Athos and Porthos hunt for an assassin, Aramis stays behind to care for the seriously wounded Captain Treville. "Missing" scenes from s02e07, "A Marriage of Inconvenience."
1. Chapter 1

Athos lead the way out and Porthos followed, closing the door behind them. Aramis wished he were riding out, too, hot fury and cold purpose swirling in his chest, on the trail of justice — and vengeance. But he also knew, as if God had whispered in his ear, that he was meant to stay with his wounded captain, whose breath rasped and rattled as blood trickled out of the silver tube jutting from his chest.

Lemay and Constance were talking quietly in the corner as Lemay looked through his pharmacopoeia, and Aramis set about making Treville as comfortable as he could, considering. He removed each boot slowly, gently, making sure not to jostle Treville so much as a hair's breadth. He saw Constance lift the back of Treville's head just enough to slip a chair cushion under it. Aramis gave her a grateful smile, and she smiled back, tentatively, the split in her lower lip dark against her skin. _And we'll have a firm word with Master Bonacieux about that_ , he thought, stowing Treville's boots in the alcove. _If D'Artagnan doesn't kill him straightaway._

On his next harsh, wet inhalation, Treville choked on blood or spittle and coughed, which made his whole body spasm and a fresh gout of blood run from the silver tube. Lemay looked up, alarmed, and Aramis was there in one long stride, holding the back of the captain's straining neck and head, easing him down to the pillow, talking softly: "It's alright, it's alright — easy — shhh. Shhh."

He felt a light touch on his elbow; it was Constance, taking the bloodied rag from his hand and giving him a fresh one, cool and damp. He wiped Treville's face where drops of blood had spattered, then folded the cloth and laid it on his forehead. "Captain," he repeated, "it's Aramis. You're at the garrison." In his experience, these simple facts were a great reassurance, even to men seemingly out of their minds with their wounds: you are in a safe place, and you are not alone.

LeMay showed Aramis a few small, sticky-looking brown pills in a palm-sized wooden box. "Opium paste," he said, closing the box and handing it over. "Just one, in watered wine, morning and night. Too much will make him weak, possibly too weak to breathe. And you must keep him sitting upright."

"Of course, I understand." Aramis turned the little box over in his fingers, thinking of musket wounds he'd treated — or suffered — without anything for the pain but a glove to bite on. "Lemay, I can't begin to thank you."

"There is no need. As I said, a team effort." The concern on his face deepened into a frown, and Aramis thought he knew the reason.

"I know you have duties at the palace. I can do the needlework and get him up to bed."

Lemay took up his surgeon's box in both arms. "I'll come back tomorrow," he said, "and send for me if there's any change." He turned back towards Constance. "Thank you for your assistance, Madame Bonacieux. I have no doubts in your continued capable nursing."

"Part of the team," she said with a smile.

Aramis walked Lemay to the door, opening it to find in the hallway a dozen musketeers waiting silently, grim and frightened. Lemay looked surprised, and said bluntly, "He is alive. The immediate danger is passed," and with a small, awkward bow, turned down the hallway towards the front gate.

Aramis leaned out the door, saying, "He'll be alright. Make sure there are clean linens on his bed, and collect half a dozen pillows, too — we'll need to prop him up." There were nods, but no one moved. Aramis looked down, then back up with a forced casual smile. "I was shot in the back at La Rochelle, and I'm still here to knock your heads together on the training ground, aren't I? Go on." They scattered like birds, and Aramis went to close the door again. _Good thing none of them saw me after La Rochelle._

A hand on a door stopped him — it was Le Monde, and in his other hand he held a familiar, thick roll of brown leather. "Wait, Aramis. I don't know if you still need this but..."

Aramis took it with a smile. "Of course, thank you, I would have missed it in a minute or two." Le Monde nodded, touched the brim of his hat, and went after the others.

Constance was tidying up the dining room, picking up bottles, cups, and candlesticks flung everywhere in the first rush. Aramis took a moment to unroll his medical kit and take out a coil of thin, straw-colored sinew, which he set to soak in the basin of hot water near Treville's head. The offending ball was still there, although Lemay had taken his scalpel and forceps with him. Aramis went to help Constance, righting the toppled chairs, wondering why the doctor would purposefully expose a good blade to hot water, blessing or no blessing. On the ground, he saw the dark scraps of leather and linen he'd pulled from Treville's wound and thrown aside to search for the musket ball. He nudged them gingerly into a corner. He pushed a chair up to Treville's side and placed Lemay's little basin there, so that the blood dripped down into it with a small, regular noise.

Constance was rinsing a cup in what remained of the hot water, and Aramis saw she had also found a bottle with some wine left in it. He set the little box of pills next to the wine, then he looked around and, seeing there was nothing left to put to rights, went and took the captain's slack, calloused hand in both of his. He closed his eyes and called up words from the Book of Isaiah: _Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God; I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with my right hand._

 _Hold him up, Lord,_ Aramis added, squeezing Treville's hand lightly. _Hold him up._

A speedy recovery, Lemay had said. In Aramis' experience, surgeons took a rather limited view of "recovery," not counting the days of lying in bed, relying on your friends to hold water and food to your lips, among other indignities, or the weeks after that, ones spent shaken, pained, and fragile as a new kitten, or the months of work it took to regain a soldier's stamina, strength, and speed. Or the rest: Porthos had a knee that foretold bad weather, Athos could barely feel much of his left hand, and if Aramis didn't work his right shoulder every day, the scars left by not one but two Huguenot musket balls would stiffen it into uselessness. And they were the lucky ones.

No, Treville would not die today, and he sincerely thanked God for Lemay's presence. But every time he sat at a new sickbed, he couldn't keep away the memories of friends who had made it off the battlefield alive, only to slip away, quietly or in terrible pain, consumed by fever or poisoned blood or, as far as Aramis could see, nothing at all but God's will.

He looked down at Treville, and another quote rose, unbidden: _All the science of the Saints is included in these two things: to do, and to suffer. And whoever had done these two things best has made himself most saintly._

Treville's hand tightened around Aramis' fingers, and, without opening his eyes, he rasped, "Aramis?"

Aramis' heart leaped at the familiar voice, but he spoke quietly. "Yes, sir. And Madame Bonacieux."

There was a long pause, and then — "Shot me… in the back… coward," Treville whispered.

"The others are out hunting for him. Whoever he is, he'll be a dead coward as soon as he's within arm's reach of Porthos."

The corner of Treville's mouth quirked in something like a smile. "I don't… don't..." He cleared his throat, and grimaced as fresh blood trickled from the tube.

"Hush," Constance said gently.

"That's right, captain," Aramis agreed, "you must always do as a beautiful woman tells you."

Treville squeezed his hand again, and stayed quiet.

Constance stopped stirring and set aside her spoon, so Aramis said, "We have some medicine for you. Don't worry, it's not my homebrew — the doctor left it."

Treville nodded ever so slightly. Aramis worked his hand under the back of Treville's neck, then lifted until his chin nearly touched his chest.

"Relax, let me hold your head up. I won't drop you. There, now. Just breathe." He held out a hand to Constance, who gave him the cup of wine. He tipped just a few drops onto Treville's bottom lip. "Swallow this. Good. Again." Aramis kept up the soothing patter as he coaxed the drugged wine into Treville, first in drops, then in small sips, down to the bitter brown dregs. The deep lines of the captain's face smoothed out, his eyes stilled under their closed lids, and his breathing slowed and quieted — but did not stop. Aramis laid Treville's head back down on the cushion and stepped back to shake out his cramping wrist and hand.

He looked up to find Constance looking at him oddly. "What?"

"You do this often," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Rather too often for my liking."

"Of course," said Constance, "you don't like that it happens, but… you like it."

Aramis rubbed his left hand with his right, thinking. "I do," he admitted after a moment. "Ministering. To souls, is where it started, and then to bodies, which house the soul. I'm a soldier to the bone, I know that, but I'm something else, as well."

Constance smiled, a little sadly, he thought. "Wouldn't the world be boring if everybody were just one thing?"

"Indeed." Aramis thought of his companions and their delightful, damned complexities. "And amen." He looked over at the silver tube jutting from between Treville's ribs. The blood had stopped dripping. As he watched, one bead of clear liquid formed and dropped, and no others followed. "The blood is done draining. I can sew up that incision now, then we'll get him upstairs."

Aramis leaned over and spoke into Treville's ear. "Captain, I'm going to put some stitches in. Try to stay still." There was no sign Treville heard, but Aramis took Constance's hands and put them on Treville's shoulders anyway. "You may have to lean into him a bit," he told her, "but it won't be as bad as getting the ball out. I've seen Treville take ten stitches with nothing but a frown — unlike some other musketeers I could name — and that's without Doctor Lemay's medicine."

Moving the basin from the chair to the floor, Aramis sat down and began unpacking the bandages around the silver tube. When he was down to bare skin, he put one hand on Treville's ribcage, took firm hold of the tube, and pulled smoothly. Treville moaned, but it was a pale shadow of his cries before; Aramis doubted the sound traveled beyond the room. He wiped away the fresh trickle of blood.

Constance turned the cloth on Treville's forehead to the cooler side, whispering reassurances.

Aramis considered the incision. Lemay's handiwork was very neat, but, of course, deep, cutting through the skin and all the layers of muscle between the ribs. He stood to reach for a needle from his kit and the now-pliable sinew from the basin.

"You should see some of the scars on Porthos," Aramis said as he eyed the needle's point critically. "As I recall, our record is twenty-six stitches, courtesy of a pikeman with more bravery than sense. Athos, I've put in maybe a handful, no more than a dozen over the years. Some days I would swear the man walks between bullets. And no one can touch with him a blade. Except for me, of course — on occasion." The point was still sharp, almost vanishing at the tip, so he threaded it with the gut. "I'll have to see if D'Artagnan can be taught needlework," he added. "Athos and Porthos are rubbish at it."

He nodded to Constance, and she put her hands back on Treville's shoulders. With his left hand, Aramis spread the skin apart on either side of the wound — Treville made a hoarse noise — and quickly put a stitch through the muscle layers, looping the gut across both sides of the wound four times, top to bottom, without stopping to tie off each loop. When he reached the bottom of the wound, he cut the length of gut short, then went back and tied each end of the long stitch, tucking the ends under. Treville made another noise that was not quite pained, not quite speech.

"Almost done." Aramis rethreaded his needle with plain waxed thread and said, half to Constance and half to himself, "Fingers like sausages, the two of them. Which means Treville has sewed me up more than once." He smiled up at her. "He has a steady hand, but you have to put up with him berating you the whole time about whatever stupidity got you hurt in the first place."

"He cares about you all."

"Yes, he does. And he shows it by yelling." Aramis closed the skin with small, evenly spaced sutures, each one tied off from its neighbor. Treville shifted uneasily under his hands, but didn't twist away or fight Constance's light hold. After cutting off the sixth stitch, Aramis pressed a bandage over the bleeding punctures and said, "All done, sir."

Constance relaxed her hold on Treville's shoulders. "What now?"

"I think we've bloodied everything Lemay brought, but we keep a stock of clean bandages in the kitchen. If you'll bring a few of those, I'll get some of the others to help us." Aramis put his needle and threads away and rolled up the kit again.

As Constance left, Aramis heard her talking in the hallway, and the door opened again on two musketeers, Aubert and a young fellow nicknamed Deuxmains.

"What can we do to help?" asked Aubert.

"Ah, excellent timing. Come around here, we're going to sit him up."

They took a moment to look down at the captain, Deuxmains nodding a crisp greeting as if Treville could see him.

Aramis pointed. "Aubert, take that side. Deuxmains, watch — ten sou says you'll have to do this one day." Aramis bent down and worked his left hand under Treville's right shoulder, trying to remember exactly where the bullet wound was, and not to graze it. Aubert did the same on the other side, and then they both reached across Treville's chest and got a firm fistful of bloody shirt. "One, two, three —"

With a grunt of effort, they straightened, pulling Treville into a sitting position. He struggled weakly in their arms. "Shhh, " said Aramis, adjusting his hold. "Easy, captain. It's Aramis, I've got you." He looked at Deuxmains. "Rest his head on my shoulder, now, and we'll get his shirt off."

With a bit of shuffling, and some help from Deuxmains' belt knife, they slid the shirt off the good arm, then the bad one.

Constance returned and set a pile of bandages on the table where Aramis could reach them. Aramis saw Deuxmains staring at her with a stunned expression that he knew well. Ah, youth!

Aramis shook out a bandage, and he, Deuxmains, and Aubert passed it around until a layer of white linen hid both the incision in Treville's side and the bullet wound in his back. "Constance," said Aramis, "could you bring the stretcher over to the head of the table?"

She looked surprised but brought it over, asking, "Aren't you going to stitch up the other wound?"

Aramis shook his head as Deuxmains unrolled the canvas stretcher over the table. "The gunpowder acts like a poison," he explained. "We'll let the wound bleed off what it can first, and Lemay or I will flush it out again, tomorrow or the next day." He left some of the other treatments for bullet wounds unsaid.

Aramis and Aubert leaned forward, laying Treville down gently. Aramis was worried that he hadn't made a sound, and tried not to let it show as he felt for the great pulse under Treville's jaw. It was weak, but it was there, and although Treville was pale, there was no gray tinge to his lips or cheeks.

Aubert lifted Treville's legs as Aramis unrolled the bottom half of the canvas. "We'll want one more to help carry him, I think."

Deuxmains leaned back out into the hallway, put two fingers to his mouth, and whistled sharply. "Yes, you, Anatole! Double time!"

Anatole, a blond giant nearly as large as Porthos, filled the doorway a moment later. He was fiddling with hat, circling it in his hands, but he quickly jammed it on his head and came in. "Help with something?"

"Just grab that corner of the stretcher, we're taking him upstairs," said Aramis, getting a good hold of the canvas near Treville's head. "On three — one, two, three!"

They lifted, sidling awkwardly to clear the tables and maneuver around to the door. Constance walked backwards in front of them, keeping an eye on the cluster of musketeers as well as the ground around their feet. She kicked a stray bucket slat to one side, then gathered her skirts in one hand and began up the stairs.

Aramis tried not to think about how the four of them, cradling a silent, supine Treville, looked like pallbearers.

Turning the corner of the landing was tricky, and Anatole's grip nearly faltered, but they made it up the stairs and into Treville's combined office and bedroom. At least ten pillows were stacked like firewood at the head of his bed.

"Wait," said Constance. With a huff of effort, she pushed aside one panel of the large iron screen, then she pulled the blanket down to the foot of the bed. "Now."

They got on each side of Treville's bed and lowered him down carefully, placing him so that he sat up against the pillows. Treville's head lolled for a moment, but, without opening his eyes, he pulled his head back up and rested it on the pillow behind him. No one made a noise, but a sort of silent cheer went among the musketeers, glance to glance.

Constance broke the spell. "Now, shoo, all of you."

Deuxmains rolled his eyes. "Who is she?"

Aramis opened his mouth to respond, but Constance beat him to it. " _She_ is helping take care of your captain, and _she_ asks that the sickroom not be crowded like a market stall on Monday." She glared, then softened a bit, and added, "Please."

Aubert leaned over to Aramis. "We'll set a guard outside the door and double the gate watch."

Aramis clasped his arm in thanks, and Aubert left, waving the others before him.

Aramis watched them go, and said, "I just might join the line to marry you, Constance."

She went a bit pink. "Yes, well." She pulled the blanket up over Treville's legs, tucking him in, then changed her mind and pulled it down again. "It can't be comfortable to sleep in those leather breeches."

She stood, making room for him to sit on the edge of the bed. Aramis unlaced Treville's breeches and worked them down over his hips, leaving his braies for Constance's sake. There was no way not to jostle Treville in doing this, but his eyes stayed closed as he was briefly rocked side to side against the pillows. Aramis hung the breeches on the iron screen, then pulled the blanket up and tucked it in. He laid a hand on Treville's forehead, even though he knew it was too soon for a fever to mount, then on his bare shoulder. It felt cool. A brazier would be good, before nightfall. But the day was still young...

"Constance," he said slowly, "whoever shot the captain is embroiled in something bigger. Something to do with Rochefort, or the attempt on the princess's life, or both, or something else entirely. We don't know who to trust right now, and the Chancellor arrives within the hour. If I go and help the others protect him, will you stay here?"

"Of course. The—" a tiny hitch— "the queen knows where I am."

Constance's hesitation landed like a small dart in Aramis' chest, but he didn't show it, only said, "Thank you. You won't be in any danger, it's the garrison, but… I would feel better if you were here. Lemay is right, you are a very apt nurse."

"My older brothers were brawlers. Seemed like there was a bloody nose in the house every day and a broken arm every week." She sat on one of the rough wooden chairs, smoothing down her skirts, and looked up at Aramis. "Go. The others need you," she said. _D'Artagnan needs you_ , she didn't say.

Aramis nodded, and took the outside steps two at a time to fetch his coat and weapons.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Author note: There was indeed an attempt on the Chancellor's life. The musketeers caught the assassins, but not before they killed Monsieur Bonacieux for stumblling upon their position.

* * *

Aramis' heart was in his throat when he saw that Constance had come out to greet them in the courtyard, an innocent spring in her step. Athos dismounted first, handed off his reins, and kept walking, not making eye contact as he passed her. Porthos did the same. Aramis and D'Artagnan also handed off their reins, and shared a glance: D'Artagnan looked lost, panicked, younger than Aramis had ever thought him. There was nothing he could say — Constance was right there, hurt and confused at her friends' apparent coldness — so Aramis nodded his encouragement to D'Artagnan and walked on. He glanced up at Treville's door, where Athos and Porthos were just entering, but his legs took him across the courtyard into his own room.

It was a palpable relief to shut the door on the outside world. Aramis wanted to drop his weapons belt to the ground and fall face-first into bed, but a good soldier never treated his tools so casually. Pistols went in the wooden box on the desk, sword belt over the back of the chair, and the rest of his gear slowly made its way onto hooks and shelves until he stood in his shirtsleeves.

Shirtsleeves. He looked at the spots and smears of blood all over himself and pulled the shirt over his head with a sigh, slinging it towards the small basket of clothes to launder or mend. _Maybe when I retire, I'll invent a solvent that removes bloodstains and get rich._ Until then, it was the fate of all his shirts to slowly turn from white to reddish-tan. Well, most of them: he put on the gray one to spite the thought. The fresh linen felt good, and he shrugged back into his coat.

He trailed a hand over the sword belt on the back of the chair. He knew he should put it on, then bring his Bible and a bottle of wine up to Treville's room, but he didn't move. He was at once weary and restless, and his door seemed to be holding back any number of worldly troubles.

Slowly, wearily, Aramis turned and knelt next to his bed. Just as he had done as a child, he put his elbows on the bedframe and rested his forehead on his clasped hands. He closed his eyes and let his mind quiet.

There was a verse from Corinthians he always came back to: _God hath tempered the body together, that there should be no schism in the body, but that the members should have the same care one for another._ The spirit of the musketeers, neatly enumerated by St. Paul. It made him smile, and Athos roll his eyes.

Aramis took the crucifix from his neck and wound it around one hand, and he prayed for Treville's recovery. He prayed for Constance and D'Artagnan, and poor, murdered Bonacieux's soul, and for Doctor Lemay. He prayed for the king, and, at somewhat greater length, for the queen and the sweet infant Dauphin, his son. He prayed, as he always did, for his companions' safety, and thanked God for his own life. Last of all, he said an _Ave_ for his mother. The litany was like oil on troubled waters, and when he was done, he sat for a long, wordless moment, rolling the beads in his fingers. When he rose — with a loud crack from his left knee — he found that the sword belt went on easily, and he opened his door on the world again without feeling quite so... assaulted.

The courtyard was deserted, and upstairs he found only Porthos, whittling with his boot knife as Treville slept.

"Where's Athos?" he asked quietly, setting the book and the wine on Treville's desk.

"He and D'Artagnan are taking Constance home. She's pretty shaken up."

"Of course. Whether or not she loved him…"

Porthos just nodded, turning the little wooden carving over in his hands.

Aramis went to Treville and touched the backs of his fingers to his forehead and cheek. They were warm, but not dangerously so; he would check again in half an hour, or if Treville grew flushed.

In the meantime, Aramis poured the wine, and he and Porthos raised their cups to each other before drinking, an acknowledgement more than a toast. Aramis put his cup down, picked up his Bible, and settled himself in the other chair as well as he could. _Treville doesn't want anyone getting too comfortable in his office._

Porthos set his cup down next to the chair leg and looked at Aramis. "You really think the captain will be alright?"

"He will if we have anything to say about it."

Porthos didn't look convinced.

"Yes," Aramis said plainly. "I really do."

"Alright. Good." Face unreadable, Porthos returned to his carving. A bird this time, Aramis thought, or a whistle he would give away to some little urchin in the streets. How he could make such delicate things and not master a needle and thread...

Aramis turned his attention to the well-worn Bible in his lap. There was a ribbon marking his place, near the beginning of the Psalms, but he paged past it, looking for something else. There —

 _God hath tempered the body together, that there should be no schism in the body, but that the members should have the same care one for another. And whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it; or one member be honoured, all the members rejoice with it._

Faces appeared in his mind, those of friends and fellow soldiers gone to God. Aramis did not push the thoughts of them away, but acknowledged each one, and to each he promised that Treville would not join their ranks for a good long time.

Aramis took a deep breath and let the memories, good and bad, settle in his heart. This was the feeling he'd had that morning, watching Athos and Porthos leave - a different sort of peace than the clean, light feeling of prayer. That was what God gave him. This was what he gave back.

He read on.

 _Love rejoices not in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things._

Another tiny curl of wood dropped from Porthos' knife; Treville shifted against the pillows and quieted again; Aramis turned the page.

 _Love never fails._

FIN


End file.
